


Four Square

by kms726



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Papa Winchester, Pre-Series, Weechester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-08
Updated: 2013-11-07
Packaged: 2017-12-31 20:17:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1035956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kms726/pseuds/kms726
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sam have butted heads since the beginning. John is back from a hunt, and six-year-old Sammy doesn't want to move again. Unfortunately for Dean, he's stuck in the middle. Pre-series, Wee!chesters, realistic!John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Supernatural is not mine.

March 30, 1990

Bardonia, New York

John Winchester pulled into the parking lot at Bardonia Elementary. He sidled the '67 Impala in-between two fading painted white lines a few rows away from the chain link fence enclosing the playground and turned off the engine. He checked his watch: 12:23. He still had a few hours to kill before the boys were out of school. Since he had nowhere else to go, John elected to simply wait in the car and catch up on some sleep.

John was fresh off wrapping up a case he had worked on for the best part of a month; what had appeared at the surface to be a simple salt 'n burn haunting at a sanitarium-turned-retirement home had morphed into a wild goose chase to find the physical trace that was tying a vengeful spirit to Earth. As it turned out, the murderous ghost had once been a psych patient who'd died at the hands of abusive and neglectful caretakers. The spirit had finally gone vengeful, taking it out on orderlies at the nursing home. It turned out that the ghost, Janie Morris, had conveniently been cremated before a proper investigation was conducted, and her killers had gone unpunished.

After countless dead ends and having to cut through yards of metaphorical red tape, John was able to find out that Janie had been up for adoption as a baby, and gained access to her sealed adoption record. Knowing it was a long-shot, John had driven six-and-a-half hours to a cemetery in Wilton, Maine, where Janie's birth mother was buried. He exhumed the body, and to his luck, discovered a locket around the corpse's bony neck—a locket containing a wisp of hair, opposite a black and white baby photo matching the one in Janie's adoption paperwork. John had lit the whole locket on fire, re-filled the grave, and drove back to Orangeburg County. Upon his return, he took care to ensure the hunt was truly over, satisfied when an orderly had told him she'd seen a pale figure in a bloody white gown burst into flames before her eyes.

Satisfied that the hunt was finally over, John returned to the motel he'd rented for the duration of the month, where he packed up all their stuff, loaded it into the trunk and turned in the key to the room. Now all he needed was his sons and he was ready to uproot to another new town and another new hunt.

Exhausted from being up all night driving and grave-digging, John slouched down and relaxed his head against the back of his seat, ready to catch up on some much-needed sleep. He had barely closed his eyes when he heard what sounded like a stampede.

John opened his eyes to see that a horde of children spilling out onto the enclosed black top, racing to grab jump ropes and basketballs and making beelines for the jungle gym. He could hear their joyful screams and laughter from inside his car; no point trying to sleep now. He scanned the hordes of children for his own.

He spotted Dean almost immediately, leaning against the cement ball wall with his arms crossed. Although Dean was average-sized for his age, he looked much older than his eleven years—an adult in a jungle of children. Dean was staring intently at something, tracking it with his eyes. John followed his gaze, and it came as no surprise to him when Dean's eye-line led him to little Sammy, playing on the jungle gym with his peers.

Six-year-old Sammy was tagged on the shoulder by another girl his age. Sam yelled and chased her over the wood chips, both kids laughing all the way. He was sidetracked by another kid who was a part of their game, veering off after him instead. Sammy chased the kid up onto the jungle gym, tagging him by the monkey bars. The other boy reached out his arm, swiping for Sammy, but he was already out of reach, making his grand escape down the spiral slide. John smiled as he watched Sammy tumble triumphantly out the bottom of the slide, landing on his backside. Virtually unfazed, Sammy leapt to his feet and took off again running.

John contentedly watched his youngest son play for a few more moments before turning his attention back to his eldest. Dean was still standing rigidly against the cement wall, watching his little brother's every move. His eyes were so intensely protective that it was disconcerting; it was a look that said he was willing to do anything to defend his little brother.

There was a part of John that swelled with pride to see how deeply committed Dean was to looking out for Sammy, anytime and anywhere. But he also wished Dean was able to let his guard down and play for twenty minutes—to be a normal kid. But in Dean's mind, he was always on duty. It was ingrained in him. John felt a surge of guilt, knowing he'd done that to Dean. He'd put that weight on Dean's shoulders, from the second he handed him his baby brother and issued four-year-old Dean his first barked order to get his brother to safety. And Dean had not only accepted the call; he had internalized it, shouldering the responsibility like it was his life's calling; the only thing Dean ever took any pride in was how well he took care of his little brother.

In his moments of guilt-ridden reflection, John would find himself worrying about how healthy it was to have that co-dependence brewing; for Dean's self-esteem to be tied so closely to another person—but those thoughts were always brushed away when John imagined what would happen if he tried to in any way diminish Dean's role in Sammy's upbringing. The only thing that had been able to pull Dean out of his gulf of misery after his mother's death had been the sense of purpose he found in looking out for Sammy. Although it was painful for John to admit it, he often felt like his boys needed each other more than they needed him. And maybe that was for the best; whatever might happen to him down the road, Sam and Dean would always have each other.

While Dean was standing sentinel, John watched a group of four kids Dean's age approach him, the boy in front holding a basketball. Despite not being able to hear their conversation, it was clear to John that they were asking Dean to be their fifth man.

"Go with them, son..." he urged, despite Dean not being able to hear him. The fifth grader shook his head at the invitation, and John saw his lips form the words, "No, thanks."

The small crowd around Dean dispersed, and the boy went back to standing guard, watching his baby brother like a hawk; he might as well have been secret service. John had always wondered why Dean had never seemed to be able to make a single friend at any of the many schools he'd attended. It hadn't made any sense to him—Dean was smart, funny, good-looking—all the hallmarks of a popular kid. But now the mystery was solved—Dean had opportunities to make friends; he was simply too preoccupied. Then again, maybe Dean knew better to make any attachments; it made their inevitable moves easier.

Sammy grew bored with playing jungle gym tag and ran over to join the line for four square. The kindergartener was now standing near enough that John could see his tousled chestnut-brown hair, his flushed pink cheeks, and the untied shoelaces of his blue Converse high-tops. The line for four square moved swiftly, as the older boy dominating the King's Square brutally and skillfully eliminated the other squares as new players rotated in. In next to no time, Sammy was at the front of the line and when the player in the Dunce Square was ousted, he confidently stepped into the game.

The reigning champion smirked at the new arrival, serving the ball into his square with the clear intention of knocking him out of the game quickly. Sammy easily hit the ball to the Queen's Square, thwarting the King. Two passed to one, one to three, three to two, then the ball was in Sammy's court and he bounced it to three, who fumbled and missed the ball, which bounced out of the square.

"Out!" the King's boisterous voice distinctly carried all the way to John's car, as he pointed to order the younger kid out of the square. The boy slouched off to join the back of the line. The ball was retrieved and the lower two remaining squares rotated up to let the newcomer in—a girl with pigtails, dressed head-to-toe in pink. The game went back into play, and Sammy was at the top of his game, easily deflecting any attacks on his turf, bouncing the ball into the other squares. The King targeted the girl in pink as his newest victim, slamming the ball into her court. It bounced in her square, and she caught it when it came up, slightly dazed. "OUT!" the King screamed.

The girl fled the court, looking distraught. Sammy watched her departure sympathetically, snapping out of it when he realized it was time to rotate. Sammy was now in the Queen's Square, a full two heads shorter than anyone else in the game, young, scrawny, and scrappy. The King now seemed determined to get Sammy out. On his turns, Sammy let the ball bounce before smacking into any of the three of the other squares without discrimination, but the King seemed hell-bent on getting Sammy, whacking the ball at him every chance he got.

Sammy stepped up to the challenge, equally determined to not be eliminated by his much larger competitor. The other two squares and everyone waiting in line stopped chatting and watched what was becoming a ping-pong match between Sammy and the King. Their duel caught the attention of other kids around them, and soon a small crowd had formed and John had to try to peer in through gaps between the students from a distance to see what was going on, finding himself involuntarily holding his breath as he rooted for Sammy.

The game play was becoming increasingly fast and furious, but Sammy amazingly held his own—the clear underdog. The ball came flying into Sammy's square. It bounced once and ricocheted up in the air, high above Sammy's head. He jumped into the air, striking the ball and slamming it into the King's square. His opponent was so riled up at this point that when the ball came to him, he smacked it at Sammy before letting it bounce first.

"Out!" John saw Sammy mouth triumphantly. The kids around Sammy cheered to see the reigning King defeated. Sammy moved forward to take the King's Square, but his competitor remained rooted in place. The big kid, humiliated at being defeated by a kindergartner—shoved Sammy hard in the chest, sending him sprawling to the ground. John sat up straighter in his seat, his blood boiling—no one ever laid a hand on his baby boy and got away with it. His hand was on the door handle when he saw Dean pushing his way through the crowd to get to his brother. Dean pulled Sammy to his feet and looked him over. John saw the bully make some sort of disparaging remark over Dean's shoulder. Dean turned away from Sammy and lashed out, shoving the bully back forcefully. The kid took a swing at Dean, who ducked and weaved—socking the kid cleanly in the nose with a right hook. Blood immediately began to pour down the kid's face.

A playground monitor had noticed the commotion and was now stepping between the two boys, trying to break them up as the two rivals continued to lunge for each other. Sammy moved to join the fray, but a shout from Dean to stay out of it kept the younger Winchester at bay.

A second recess teacher joined in the fray, and with the joint effort of the two adults, they managed to separate Dean and the other kid. Both now had bloody noses and were breathing heavily. The two troublemakers were both gripped by the arms and bodily escorted off the playground by the two monitors. Sammy ran along behind Dean. He saw Dean shout something at Sammy, who reluctantly fell back, staring down at his shoes.

John wanted nothing more than to go to comfort Sammy, and to see if Dean was alright after his altercation. The Principal would no doubt be trying to get a hold of him soon with a motel number he was no longer connected to—but then the recess bell rang, and the playground emptied, albeit slower than it had filled. Sammy was lost in the crowd, and John once again found himself staring at an empty playground.

This wasn't the first time Dean had gotten into trouble for fighting at school; John by no means encouraged the behavior in an academic setting, but he also couldn't fault Dean for doing what he'd been training him to do for years—to look out for Sammy. And with every mishap, that had been just what Dean was doing. Sammy was picked on a lot for his small size and always being the new kid. Sammy was a tough kid, but sensitive, too. He couldn't hold his own yet; not like Dean could. But there was rarely any need for Sammy to defend himself when he had his big brother constantly looking over his shoulder.

John considered going inside to try to smooth the issue over, but figured that there really wasn't much of a point; he'd already spoken with the Principal about how long he planned on having the boys enrolled, informing her before he left on the hunt that Friday would be the last day his sons would be attending her school. Dean had never gotten in trouble for fighting at this particular school before, so he probably wouldn't get expelled—possibly suspended. But what did it matter? He was pulling the boys out after today, anyway. If he were to barge into office now, then he would have had to explain how he knew about the fight when the school hadn't been able to contact him. Even if the school had left a voice message, the boy's records showed that he worked days, and therefore wouldn't likely receive the voicemail till he was off work. Besides, John had learned from previous meetings with school authorities that Dean didn't need him to fight these type of battles for him; the kid already had some serious charisma, and could easily charm and sweet-talk his way into a reduced sentence.

John was willing to overlook the fight if the school did. Dean would probably have to spend the rest of the day in the office, but John knew Dean would far prefer that over being in class. In the meantime, John decided his time would be best used getting some shut-eye so he wouldn't fall asleep at the wheel.

John settled back in his chair. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep, but it was made very difficult by the fact that he was still seeing red, his brain replaying that big kid shoving Sammy and taking a swing at Dean. He didn't tolerate anything hurting his boys—snot-nosed kids included. In time, John was able to settle down enough to drift into an uneasy sleep. His lifestyle made John Winchester the kind of man who rarely slept, and when he did it was with one eye open, his body stiff and on alert for attack.

He was later woken by a tapping sound at his window. John instantly gave a start and his eyes flew open, instinctively making a move for his gun—relaxing when he saw it was just a woman in a fluorescent yellow safety vest leaning over his car. He recognized her as the playground monitor who had escorted Dean to the main office. John started his car long enough to roll down his window and turned it off again. "Can I help you, Ma'am?"

"Sir," the woman smiled politely, showing all her teeth. "It's come to our attention that you've been parked here for quite some time, and I'm afraid that school policy doesn't permit loitering on campus."

John sat up straighter, running a hand over his scruffy beard. "I'm waiting to pick up my kids."

"Oh?" the woman smiled even wider, clearly surprised. John was fully aware that he was a far-cry from the usual sort of parent seen at pick-up: he was lacking a station wagon and bumper stickers of his children's achievements for one thing, not to mention his mountain-man appearance. "What are their names?" she asked, concealing her suspicion with friendly curiosity. "I know all the children."

Really? John thought, you want me to prove I have kids that go here? Aware that her hand poised over the walkie-talkie on her belt, John relented and said, "Winchester—Sam and Dean."

"Oh," the woman was still smiling, though now her lips had grown tight. Her voice only sounded slightly forced when she said, "They're, er...lovely boys."

"Damn right they are," said John proudly, flashing her a wide grin. He noticed the pseudo-security guard was peering into his car, frowning at where Sammy and Dean had carved their initials into the side-panel. "Nice stripes," he said, commenting on the fluorescent stripes on her vest. "They're very slimming."

The woman smoothed out her jacket uncomfortably. "You have a good day, Sir," she said, stepping away from the car and looking all-too-eager to get away.

"You, too," said John gruffly. He checked his watch—2:45. No point trying to fall asleep again. He grabbed one of his many newspapers collected across the state and exited the vehicle, going to the front of the school and waiting by the flagpole, their designated meeting place. He sat on the bench and began to read. He ignored the other parents that were slowly arriving to wait for their kids as well, and his ominous stature and reclusive air kept anyone from approaching him, along with the social taboo against bothering anyone reading the paper.

When John began to hear the chatter of children, he at last looked up, watching for Sam and Dean. Before long, he saw the boys exiting together. Dean was saying something to Sammy, who was nodding fervently in agreement, his eyes wide. John would bet his Impala that Dean was making Sammy promise not to breathe a word to him about what happened at recess.

John stood up, tucking the newspaper into his jacket. Sammy spotted him first, and his face lit up in a semi-toothless smile. "Daddy!" The little boy broke from his brother's side and raced to his father, hugging him tightly around his waist.

"Hey, Sammy," said John warmly, his hand on the back of Sammy's head. He smiled in greeting at his eldest son as he joined him at his side. "Hey, Dean."

"Hey, Dad," said Dean with a diffident smile. He too was pleased to see his father, though he was better at containing it at his age than Sammy. John was acutely aware of Dean looking him over for any obvious injuries from his hunt; he had come home pretty torn up in the past. "How was the trip, Dad? Did you sell it?" Then, he added for Sammy's benefit, "You know—the last box of encyclopedias?"

Well-versed with the cryptic language they used around Sammy to preserve his ignorance of the supernatural world, John replied, "Oh yeah. I sold it, son."

Dean nodded."Good."

"How was school?" John inquired, before Sammy got the chance to ask any questions about his trip.

Dean shrugged non-commitedly, but Sammy said, "Great!", dropping his backpack to the ground and digging through it. "Look, what we did in class today, Daddy!" He shoved several papers into John's hands, including a worksheet adding and subtracting apples and oranges (where Sammy had received a smiley-face note from his teacher), a coloring page of a zebra where Sammy had made the stripes purple ("I thought the crayon was black when I picked it up!") and a barely dried finger painting of what looked like a black brick with wheels with three misshapen stick figures visible through the windows.

"It's us, Dad!" Sammy unnecessarily explained, pointing. "The Impala—you—Dean, and that little one's me!"

"That's great, Sammy," John smiled down at the painting in his hands.

"You can keep it," said Sammy. John thanked his youngest, tucking the painting carefully into the inner pocket of his jacket for safekeeping.

"So—how'd it go while I was gone?" John asked. Dean was finally legally old enough to be left home alone, so after they'd had their dinner the previous night, he'd left on the hunt and now wanted a full report. "Did you get to school on time? Did you remember the lunch money I left for you?"

"Yeah, Dad. Everything was fine," said Dean calmly. "I made sure Sammy had a bath last night like you told me to. We did our homework and went to bed at eight-thirty. We had cereal for breakfast, we caught the bus—"

"Barely!" Sammy interjected with a giggle. "We had to chase it down the street, Daddy!"

Dean glared at his brother. "Well, we got to school on time, at least."

"So, no problems, then?" John pressed, hoping to be able to get Dean to confide in him on his own about the incident that day.

"No, sir," said Dean fervently, his eyes locked warningly on his brother.

"Well in that case, let's get going," said John, picking up Sammy's plastic Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles backpack and slinging it over his shoulder. Sammy intertwined his little hand in John's, animatedly telling him about his day all the way to the car. Dean followed a step or two behind them, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, fingers over a crumpled note from his Principle meant for his father, telling him all about the fight. He planned on torching it the first chance he got, not wanting his Dad to be disappointed in him.

"—and I got another gold star!" Sammy said proudly, pointing to his collar.

"Oh yeah, buddy?" John said, "What'd you get it for this time?"

"Mrs. Lewis showed us a big map of America, and she asked if anyone knew which state we live in. And I pointed at New York!" said Sammy happily. "And then she asked if I could point at where we lived before we moved here, and I pointed to Indiana. And then she started naming all these states and I knew where they all were, cos we'd been there before—"

"And you could read them on the map," Dean said with a discreet eye roll.

"No, Dean!" said Sammy scornfully, looking over his shoulder. "You know I can't read words that big!"

"That's great, Sammy," John said encouragingly. At least there was one good thing to come out of all their moving around; his sons were most definitely not geographically challenged.

They reached the car and John unlocked the doors. "Is there enough room for my backpack in the trunk?" Dean asked. Unlike Sammy, he didn't care to have his books with him in the car.

John thought of all the concealed weaponry and duffel bags already filling the trunk and said, "Let's see..." he unlocked the trunk and the hood lifted up. Sammy immediately began to back away. "No, no, NO!"

"Sammy?" John said uncertainly, "What's wrong?"

"I don't want to move!" Sammy shouted tremulously, pointing at their trunk with a shaking finger, where everything they owned in the world was stored—a sure sign that another move was imminent.

"Sammy," John said placidly, trying to defuse Sammy before he went into full-blown freak out mode. "I told you before I left that today would be our last day here, remember?"

"But I don't wanna leave," Sammy repeated, fat tears now sliding down his cheeks. "I like it here! I like this school, and my teacher, and my friends!"

"You'll like your new school even better, Sammy. You'll see," Dean put his arm around his brother's shoulders. "You'll make new friends."

"But I don't wanna go to a new school, or make new friends!" Sammy cried, twisting away from his brother. He stomped his foot stubbornly. "I wanna stay at THIS school! It's MY turn for show-and-tell next week! I was gonna bring that dead dragonfly I found in the pool at the motel! And I still haven't got my turn to take home Rodney yet!"

"Who's Rodney?" Dean asked, puzzled.

"The new class guinea pig!" Sammy sounded frustrated, as if this was something everyone should know. "We just got him from Room 102 'cos the new kid Dylan Harris was allergic, and we get to take turns taking care of Rodney, but Mrs. Lewis said we're starting with the A's to make it fair cos everyone wants Rodney, so Sarah got to take him home first but I'm a W so I have to wait forever!"

"Sammy..." John began again, but the boy clearly wasn't done yet. "AND my class field trip to the zoo is next Friday. I still have a permission slip in my backpack for you to sign, remember?"

Yes, John did remember. He had avoided signing the permission slip, knowing it was more than likely they'd be moving before then and not wanting to have to go back on his word if he said Sammy could go. "I'm sorry, kiddo. But we won't be here long enough for you to go on your field trip, or get to take Rodney home."

"But Dad," Sammy was now choking on his tears, beseechingly stepping closer to John, giving him that lost puppy look that always had the power to tug at his heartstrings. "This school is my favorite!"

Sammy had never reacted this strongly about a move before, leading John and Dean to believe the boy's last statement. Sammy was now having a full-blown meltdown, his breath coming in sharp gasps. "I—don't—wanna!" he wailed, clinging desperately to his father, his pleas muffled against John's coat. "Please, Daddy—don't make us move again!"

"I'm sorry, Sammy," John said again, wrapping his arms around the boy. And he meant it. He would love nothing more than for them to have a normal life, to have a postal address and a white picket fence—neighbors, barbeques, apple pies, maybe even a dog. But that life wasn't an option for them anymore; it was something they had lost along with Mary. Now they had to stay on the move, crappy motel room to crappy motel room, school to school—every monster he killed and every hunter he met took him one step closer to finding what killed Mary, and every move they made shook off the trail of whatever was out there in the dark—something he knew in his gut was stalking his family. And if they ever stopped running, stopped training—he would lose his boys, too.

"I'm so sorry," John said again, stroking Sammy's hair. "My job—"

"NO!" Sammy suddenly cried, flinging himself away from John. "I don't wanna hear about your job! I hate your job! You—you need to quit your job and get a new one! One where they don't make you move all over and leave us all the time—it's not fair!" Sammy's face was bright red, soaked with tears. "Just quit!"

"I can't," said John warily. How could Sammy ever understand?

Sammy's face screwed up. His little shoulders began to shake. Whatever he had been holding in came bubbling up and finally spilled over the surface, finally exploding. "You NEVER ask me and Dean what we want! You don't care, you only do what YOU want! It's not fair—I want to choose where we live, and I pick here!"

John's voice was like flint. "I am your father. You do not get to make those kind of decisions. I know what's best for this family. We go where I say, when I say."

"I h-hate you!" Sammy sobbed, backing away from John. His voice trembled uncontrollably, rising in volume. "I hate you! I HATE YOU!"

"Sammy, come on—" said Dean, clearly shocked at his brother's outburst. He glanced nervously around; other families on the way to their cars were stopping to watch their family's dramatics as if they were a TV program. Even worse was his father's face; stung by Sammy's words, poorly concealing his pain, fighting for composure.

Dean looked helplessly between his father and brother, feeling caught in the middle of their epic battle of wills. He just wanted the fight to resolve itself peacefully—hated any confrontation in his family. He didn't know what to say to defuse the situation. He was afraid that anything he said would only succeed in making things worse.

Sammy and John were now having a stand-off, both equally stubborn, staring each other down. Sammy, with his defiantly narrowed eyes and quivering lower lip, rapidly rising and falling chest, little hands forming fists at his sides—John with his towering height, stubbornly set jaw and face like a stone mask. His voice sliced through the tense silence, low and forcibly calm. "Get in the car, Sammy."

"NO!" Sammy screamed, turning to run away. Without checking if it was safe, he bolted out between two lanes of parked cars. "SAMMY!" John and Dean yelled in-sync, but the driver of the maroon van slammed on the brakes just in time and blared their horn, barely avoiding hitting the small boy who had just leapt out in front of her car.

The driver hopped out—a woman in her mid-thirties—instructing her three kids in the backseat to stay where they were. She moved around the side of the van and found a man standing there, looking scared to death and clutching a small, trembling child in his arms. An older boy was hovering beside both of them, strong concern for his younger brother etched into his delicate features.

"I'm so sorry, I didn't see him—is he alright?" the woman asked anxiously.

"He's fine," John responded, curtly. He gave her a forced smile to soften his gruff tone. "I'm sorry, it's just—it's not your fault. Really. I'm just glad your reflexes were so good."

A line was building up behind the idling minivan. A few horns honked. The woman rang her hands fretfully, her guilt not so easily abated. "I am so, so sorry—I swear I only looked back at my kids for a split second..."

"It's fine. He shouldn't have run out like that. He knows better," said John, indirectly speaking to Sammy. He motioned his head to the line of cars waiting. "Really, there's no problems here, Ma'am. We're good—no harm done."

Still looking uncertain, the woman gave them one last apologetic look before returning to her car, easing the traffic congestion. Sammy continued to kick and fight as his Dad carried him back to the car, pounding his fists against John's chest, a wild swing hitting him in the face. Dean opened the car door and John deposited Sammy into the backseat.

"Listen to me, Sammy. Look at me," said John sternly, kneeling down and gripping the boys arms to keep him from hitting anymore. "You almost got yourself killed just now. Do you realize that? Don't you ever go running off like that again. From now on, when I tell you to do something, you do it. Understand?"

Sammy started obstinately back at him, looking like he could spit. It was clear to John that he wasn't going to get an response out of him. John gruffly buckled Sammy in, and in turn the boy was less-than compliant, suddenly becoming all limbs. Dean lamentably watched Sammy and his Dad's struggle from the front seat, seeing them as two opposing forces that had always been destined to collide. By the time John had managed to strap Sammy in, his patience was all but burnt out and he stopped himself at the last second from slamming Sammy's car door shut.

Dean didn't dare speak as his father started up the car and drove away from the school for the last time. Personally, he was glad to see the brick building fade into the distance: he hated that school—just like every other school he'd ever been to. Being the new kid everywhere had long since lost its novelty, and he was never one for academics, anyway. Not like Sammy. Dean went to school because for some reason his Dad wanted him to go, and apparently, there was some truancy law that meant he had to. They found their way around other laws, and Dean didn't see why school should be any different; his Dad was teaching him all the important things he really needed to know. Bow hunting he could use in real life. Algebra—not so much.

Dean could tell that now was not a good time to ask if he could be exclusively "home schooled", especially since Sammy was kicking the back of his Dad's chair and crying bitterly.

John grit his teeth against each jolt through his chair. His patience had finally reached its limit. "Sammy—stop it. Now. I mean it."

Sammy recognized his Dad's tone of voice that said he was done. Sammy continued to whimper quietly, but ceased kicking John's chair.

Instead, Sammy vented by mentally listing all the things that he hated: his Dad's job was number one. He hated moving around all the time, and that his Mom was dead and he couldn't even remember her, but Dad and Dean acted like he should. He hated that his brother always took his Dad's side, that he couldn't even have a dog. He hated the classic rock his Dad always played, wanting to hear the new songs on the radio his friends were always singing. He hated the long boring hours stuck in the car, hated never having his own bed or his own room—and he especially hated the greasy fast food his Dad had just picked up at a drive-thru window.

Sammy turned his head, pressing his face against the window, wishing that his family could just be normal.

...

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

It was a tense car ride with conversation only out of necessity; it was just the Winchesters, the Impala, the open road and Led Zeppelin cassettes. They drove until nightfall, at which point they ate dinner at a roadside diner and found a motel for the night. Dean and Sam waited in the car while John checked in.

"Dean?" came Sammy's voice from the backseat.

"Hmm?"

Sammy wound the hem of his t-shirt around his finger as he asked, "D'you think Dad's still mad at me?"

Dean twisted around in his seat to look at his little brother. "No. I don't think so, Sammy."

"How do you know?" asked Sammy in a small, insecure voice. "He didn't talk to me at ALL after we left the school."

"Maybe he just wasn't feeling talkative, Sammy," Dean shrugged. "And he did so talk to you—he asked you if you had to go to the bathroom back in Erie, and what you wanted to eat at the diner. He talked to you just as much as he did to me. Sometimes Sammy, people just like to have their quiet."

"He sure sounded mad at me earlier..."

"Dude," said Dean blatantly, "I get that you hate moving, I really do—but you threw that tantrum and then ran in front of a car! I'm not trying to take sides here, Sammy—but that was a dumb move and you know it. And sure, maybe Dad was mad at you, but you scared him, Sammy. And that's saying something—'cos Dad's not afraid of anything. You shoulda seen his face!"

Sammy raised his eyes. "I scared Dad?"

"Ohhh yeah," said Dean, "You scared me too, little brother."

"I did?" said Sammy, sounding oddly pleased with himself.

"I think you spooked the driver pretty good, too. But seriously, Sammy—never do that again. Promise me. I don't know what me and Dad would do if something ever happened to you."

"Okay, Dean. I promise," Sammy said, touched by his brother's rare verbal sentiment. He went back to twisting his finger in his shirt. "Do people also get angry when they get their feelings hurt?"

"I dunno, Sammy. Maybe," said Dean dismissively. He'd never given much thought to anything involving 'feelings', or anything else that was a gateway to a chick-flick moment. "Why're you asking?"

"I didn't mean what I said," said Sammy quietly. "I don't really hate Dad. I just hate moving all the time..."

"I know, Sammy," said Dean with as much sympathy as he could muster, being as tired as he was.

Having somewhat eased his conscience, Sammy closed his eyes and leaned into the door. Dean wanted nothing more than to close his eyes, too, but he had to keep watch. To stay alert, Dean used the light from a nearby lamp-post to count the drops of rain on the windshield and pondered what his brother had said. Dean didn't mind all the moving around so much; not as long as they all stuck together. His eyelids were growing heavy and he jumped slightly when he heard the car door handle jiggle. He relaxed when he saw it was his Dad.

John opened his door and climbed in. "Room nine's ours. I've never seen a manager who keeps worse books than that guy," he peered into the backseat and saw that Sammy had fallen asleep, his head resting against the window. "How long's he been out?"

"A couple of minutes," Dean responded. John started the car and moved over to park in front of Room Nine.

The hunter opened the trunk and grabbed his and Sammy's duffel bags. Dean stood with his gear and made to follow John to the room. John cast an uneasy glance around the parking lot, and although their car was less than ten feet away from the room, he didn't want to leave Sammy out there by himself for even a minute. He turned to his trusted eldest child. "D'you mind waiting by the car, buddy?"

"Sure, Dad," Dean responded. He watched as his Dad unlocked the door to the room, stuck the key in his pocket and stepped through the dark doorway, feeling along the walls for the light switch. He located it, bathing the sea foam-green room with gold light and deposited the duffel bags on the nearest bed. He wasn't much one for interior decorating, but he was glad they'd only be staying here one night; the color of the room made him feel nauseous. No wonder it was the only vacant room.

John went back out to the car, nodding to Dean that it was okay to abandon his post and put his stuff in the room. John opened the back door, but decided against waking Sammy, who looked so peaceful. Instead, he unbuckled Sammy's seat belt and gathered the sleeping boy up into his arms. Sammy's head immediately dropped to John's shoulder, his arms wrapping around his neck. Hands full, John used his hip to close the car door, and seeing that Dean had re-emerged at his side, said, "The keys are in my pocket."

Catching his meaning, Dean retrieved the car keys from the pocket of his Dad's leather jacket and locked the Impala. Nodding his thanks, John carried Sammy into the motel room, Dean following at his heels. He laid Sammy down on one of the queen-sized beds, pulled off his shoes and with Dean's help, got Sammy changed from his jeans and flannel shirt and into his Optimus Prime pajamas.

John placed one hand at the base of Sammy's neck and the other under his knees, carefully lifting Sammy's limp body up. Dean pulled back the covers and John lowered Sammy back onto the bed. Sammy immediately turned over onto his side, curling his legs up for warmth. John pulled the covers up to Sammy's chin, tucking him the blankets in around him. With Sammy taken care of, John turned his attention to his eldest son, and caught him in the act of yawning. "Looks like you're ready to turn in too, kiddo. Go on and get ready for bed."

"Okay, Dad," Dean easily consented, grabbing his bag and heading for the bathroom.

"Don't forget to brush your teeth," John called.

Dean paused in the doorway, looking over his shoulder at his sleeping brother. "What about Sammy?"

"What about—?" for a split second, John was confused at Dean's meaning. "Oh, well, I'm not gonna wake Sammy up for that. We'll just have him brush twice in the morning," he smirked.

"He can get away with not brushing," Dean said, retrieving his own toothbrush from his bag. "All his teeth are falling out, anyway."

"Can't argue with that logic," John agreed with a chuckle. Dean closed the bathroom door and John went about securing the room. He locked and bolted the door and poured salt lines on the window sills and over the threshold. John pinned several protective sigils and amulets onto the walls. He had learned the hard way that red paint on the walls was frowned upon by the owners; thumb tack holes, they didn't even notice. He took such precautions everywhere they went, knowing there was no such thing as being paranoid when you're a hunter. He also made sure not to leave any evidence of his lifestyle behind, so as to not spook housekeeping.

By the time he finished putting protective measures up around the room, Dean was ready for bed. He emerged from the bathroom, the faint smell of smoke following him out.

"You didn't light a match in there, did you, kiddo?" John teased. Dean's eyes went wide; he'd opened the window and throughly fanned out the smoke after burning the written reprimand from his teacher. Despite destroying the evidence, he still had a nagging sensation to confess; his Dad had an uncanny ability to tell when something was amiss, anyway, and it was always better for everyone involved if Dad didn't have to find things out the hard way. Surely his Principal would pass her note onto the next school...

"Yeah," Dean said, doing a good show of looking embarrassed. "You might not wanna go in there for a while."

"Thanks for the heads up," John said, as Dean climbed into bed beside Sammy. Dean was eleven now, and John found himself wondering how many more years their sleeping arrangement would work out before Dean would start caring about having his own bed and personal space.

John sat down on his bed and began to pull off his work boots. He glanced up to see if Dean was still awake, and found him staring at the opposite wall with a peculiar expression, but not one that was entirely unfamiliar; it meant that Dean was having an internal battle over whether or not to disclose something to him. John had an inkling what Dean's dilemma could be about, and waited patiently while he re-laced his boots. John rarely ever had to pry information out of Dean; his conscience always made him fess up in the end. He was a good kid.

"Dad?" Dean said at last, Jiminy Cricket finally winning over.

"Yeah, son?"

Dean spoke slowly, cautiously. "Earlier...when you asked if there'd been any trouble when you were gone—I... may not have told you everything."

John sat up straight, looking directly at Dean and feigning ignorance. "Oh?"

"I um...I sorta got in trouble at school today. I didn't tell you 'cos it wasn't a big deal since we were moving anyway—"

"It's okay, Dean," said John calmly. "I know about the fight."

This clearly came as a surprise to Dean. His eyebrows knitted together. "You do—how? Did my Principal find a way to reach you?"

"No—I saw it happen, actually," John confessed in his turn. "I finished the case and got to the school early to wait for you. I saw the whole thing from the car."

"And you're not mad?" Dean asked carefully, eyes downcast.

"Kiddo, why would I ever be mad at you for sticking up your brother? You did good, son. I'm proud of you," John said, and Dean's cheeks colored at his praise. "I know that schools, however, see situations like today a bit differently. I know that kid had it coming, but...just remember that you may be able to change schools and get all these fresh starts, but that permanent record's gonna follow you around. So just make sure you never go looking for trouble, okay, Dean?"

"Okay, Dad," Dean solemnly agreed. He noticed that his father's gaze had fallen on his sleeping brother. "You know that Sammy didn't mean what he said to you earlier, right? He told me."

The corner of John's lip twitched in an almost-smile. "I know, Dean," he said, not letting on how grateful he was for Dean's reassurance; the look on Sammy's face earlier that day had said otherwise. "I can't say I blame him; he doesn't understand yet. He can't. I was just hoping I wouldn't have one of my kids shouting how much they hated me until they were at least thirteen."

"I hope Sammy never understands why we move so much," said Dean quietly.

"Me, too, Dean," said John, staring wistfully at his sleeping son. "Me too."

John stood, going over to the bedside lamp and dimming it to a light glow, the way Sammy liked it. "Get some sleep, Dean," he said softly, seeing his older son's eyelids fluttering as he fought off sleep. Dean obeyed, turning his head into his pillow and drifting off instantly.

John sat down on his bed, watching his boys sleep and easily losing himself in his thoughts. He knew that the events on the night of November 2, 1983 had not been a random act of violence upon his family; whatever it was that was in Sammy's nursery had to have been there for a reason. He he knew in his gut that whatever it was still after Sammy, maybe Dean, too. It wanted to finish the job. He felt like he was running towards his adversary and away from it at the same time; wanting to avenge his wife, and shield his children from it at the same time. All he knew was they had to keep moving. They were at war against the supernatural world. And if John had learned anything about fighting a war, it was that staying in one place too long could be deadly. If gave the enemy time to pinpoint your location and take aim.

Dean knew the reason they had to move all the time. Maybe that was why he obeyed every order John issued without question. He wondered if Sammy would be more compliant if he knew the truth. But Sammy still believed in Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy—that the world was a safe place and living a normal life was a possibility. John wasn't ready to bring reality crashing down on Sammy yet; couldn't bear to crush his innocence that all children deserved to have. The monsters under their beds should be perceived as a childish fear, not a reality. It was bad enough that he hadn't been able to spare Dean from knowing the truth; he'd already seen evil firsthand at the tender age of four.

John made a vow then and there that he would try to stay in Montana (the next stop on their road) as long as they possibly could so they could have some stability. He owed that to his sons—especially Sammy. With any luck, they would get to finish off their school year there. They'd lay low, he would get a blue-collar job and find an affordable rental house instead of a cheap motel—somewhere with a yard. He would still look for hunts, but would keep it on the back burner for now, and devote more of his time and attention to his boys; they deserved it.

His mind made up, John's eyes once again fell on Sammy—his sweet, innocent baby boy. Watching Sammy, thinking of all the things he'd put him through as his young age, the number of times he'd pulled their lives up by the roots when Sammy was just beginning to flourish in his new environment...he wouldn't blame Sammy if he did hate him. He wouldn't blame Dean if he starting hating him, either. Dean had it worse than Sammy, whose biggest responsibility was making sure he washed behind his ears. But Dean never complained about the load he bore, and John was more thankful and proud of his son than he could ever find words to express.

This wasn't the life John wanted for his family. He never could have imagined he'd be raising his kids alone, living on the road, surviving off ill-gotten money, eating greasy dinner food, sleeping in sleazy motels, everything they owned in the world packed into the Impala with a trunk full of monster-slaying agents. He shuddered to think what Mary would say if she could see them now. But she was gone, and they still had to carry on. In the wake of Mary's death, John had sensed a lingering threat to his children and immediately went into offensive mode, instincts and military-training kicking in, influencing his every move.

One day this would all be over. He'd find the son-of-a-bitch that had taken Mary and send it back to hell. His boys would be safe, and at last they'd all be able to rest. He'd be able to lay down his guns and walk away from the hunting life, secure a real home for his boys, send them both off to college when they were grown, and await the inevitable day when his boys would return home and introduce him to their brides-to-be. John actually smiled at the thought of one day having grand kids, who could distract him from the pain of growing old without Mary by his side.

But for now, the hunt was still on. They had work to do.

...

THE END


End file.
